


How could he not?

by JaqofSpades



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Weevil was pretty sure he could fall in love with Luisa Cortez. She was hot, she was into him, and she didn't mind him hanging out with Veronica Mars." One night in Weevil's head, four years on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How could he not?

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: This isn't songfic, but the storyline was certainly helped along by my mad passion for Daddy Yankee's El Cartel: The Big Boss, and in particular, the two songs mentioned. With huge thanks to the grammar maestro, Bancainte, who braved an unfamiliar fandom to deal to my dodgy tenses. Flaws in characterisation et al are all mine.

  


\---

 

Weevil was pretty sure he could fall in love with Luisa Cortez. She was hot, she was into him, and she didn't mind him hanging out with Veronica Mars.

Veronica's cool, she said.

Hell, Veronica had introduced him to Luisa. He'd dropped round to the Sheriff's one night to borrow her camera for a stakeout, and their Advanced Forensics study group was just wrapping up. While all the whitebread girls goggled at his tattoos and the guys puffed up like roosters, Luisa had looked him up and down and was so obviously impressed that Veronica had rolled her eyes.

“Luisa Cortez, meet Eli Navarro. Eli ... Luisa!” He had thrown V a dirty look, because chica knew there were only two people alive allowed to call him Eli, before returning his gaze to the curvy girl in front of him.  He smiled his wolf smile, then reached out his hand to take hers. Slowly.

“My friends call me Weevil.”

Her eyebrows had arched over black Spanish eyes and red lips had pushed up into a delicious pout. “And what do your girlfriends call you?” she'd asked playfully. He'd caught Veronica's smirk out of the corner of his eye, and wasn't about to disappoint her.

“Legendary,” he'd said with his best lecherous grin, and apparently, it still worked.

Luisa was in his bed after their second date, and was calling him her boyfriend within the week. They'd done dinner at her parents house six weeks later, and soon he had a regular gig with her brothers to play poker. It was fun – he was part of a family again, and they all spoke the same language and it was easy, you know? Suddenly, abuela's hints about the neighbourhood girls made more sense.

But the nights he was alone in his bed, it wasn't a neighbourhood girl who came visiting.

It was a tiny blonde in biker boots, too bossy by half. Green eyes that taunted and challenged. A skinny little ass and a flat little chest and a mouth that didn't know when to quit. It was Veronica Mars, and in his imagination she tilted her head and tapped her lip and he came so long and hard that he didn't have the energy to feel guilty afterwards.

*

Veronica and Piz are so cute together, Luisa said after they'd bumped into the other couple at Java the Hut.

Weevil just snorted. Wasn't that he didn't like the guy, he could be funny and he treated her right, which won a lot of brownie points in Weevil's book, but … they were cute. That was the problem.

Wallace and Mac thought Veronica had mellowed. Happiness looked good on her, they said. She'd learnt to cancel dates, or call when she'd be late, and even better, to leave the dangerous stuff to her Dad, or him. Problem was, Weevil knew otherwise. He'd always helped her out on the scarier stakeouts and places she couldn't afford to be seen; when Hearst had refused to pay for his knee surgery last year, the Sheriff had offered to pick up the tab if Weevil would come work for them full time. Within three months, Keith had wanted to spend more time chasing bail jumpers, and he and Veronica were taking the lead on everything else.

But she hadn't learnt to leave it anyone – she'd simply learnt to hide it better. And she might have perfected the nice girl act for everyone else, but when they were alone? She'd been bitchier than ever, letting out all her frustrations in a torrent of curse words and cattiness and razor sharp jibes. She knew he could take it – hell, she knew he liked it. And when they did their thing – their endless, running battle of salacious innuendo - things had stepped up a gear or six.

Did she know how hot it got him? He suspected she did, because a few times lately, she'd broken eye contact or backed off when they'd gotten to his favourite stage, that point where she was right up in his personal space and flicking her tongue against her top lip as she suggested dirty, dirty things. Last week, she'd actually blushed, and taken a step back, then asked him how Luisa was.

He'd wanted to say “Who cares?” but stopped himself just in time. The fact that he'd even thought it was bad enough … his abuela hadn't raised him to disrespect women. Besides, Veronica would have been pissed, too – she and Luisa were friends, studying together, catching the odd chick flick, even shopping. (Weevil wasn't sure he bought that one, though. Luisa, yes. But 'Lil Miss Biker Boots? Nah.)

Then she'd stopped coming over just to hang out. Used to be, once or twice a week they'd order pizza, have a few beers, talk about their cases, just kick back. Sometimes it was Friday night, sometimes 3am on a Tuesday … no plan, no schedule, just whenever they felt like seeing each other. Once she'd found Luisa there more than a few times, she'd started ringing ahead to check it was OK. She'd drop by with files, but say no to dinner. Stopped sprawling next to him on the couch, feet kicking at each other, just having fun.

He'd tried to talk to her about it, because they were friends, dammit. He told her she was welcome at his place anytime, even when Luisa was there. She'd snorted and picked at the hem of her t-shirt, mumbling something about not wanting to intrude. Then she'd lifted her head and looked him right in the eye and told him they should do something together, him and Luisa and her and Piz.

“No fucking way,” he'd spat out without thinking.

“Why? If I have to, then you have to!” she'd fired back.

“Have to what, Veronica? Watch him turn you into a fucking Stepford wife? No thanks!”

“It's not fair to ask me to watch you with her!” Veronica had yelled, shaking with anger.

“I hate seeing you with him,” he'd yelled back.

And they'd both frozen into an awkward silence. Except, Weevil had thought, for the sound of the elephant in the room. That dude was fucking trumpeting.

*

Veronica's always gotta be in control, Luisa had said on Monday, glaring at him as if it was his fault. Finals had just started and V had been pretty fucking tense, so he'd just laughed and nodded, because, yeah, it was true.

Veronica liked to be in control. Mostly. But it was “mostly” that would get them in trouble, because she kept herself so locked up these days, so disciplined and careful and … SuperVeronica. He'd seen it before, though, and knew how it would end. She'd blow a gasket, and do something wild, something stupid and dangerous and reckless, just to let it all out. And he'd be right there with her, howling at the moon, because he needed it too.

He didn't expect this, though.

It's Friday night, finals are done, and he's taking Luisa to his favourite dance club for the first time. They've been together three months, after all, and he needs to do this, to stand up and say “this is my girl” to the world at large. But he's twitchy and uncomfortable, because he's brought Veronica here a lot, and he can't help but think about it as “their” place. Even if there was no “them”.

They would come here after a stakeout, or a bad case, or whenever they needed to dance out some tension. The old-style jukebox is chock full of everything from Latino pop to Reggaeton, and he'd taught her to salsa and samba, and she'd taught him to cool off in the john between songs because dancing with Veronica gets him so hard he can barely move.

The bartender is a friend, and he takes a long look at Luisa and raises his eyebrows. Later, he hisses “where's your rubia?” and Weevil nearly hits him. He forces himself to apologise, though, because he can't figure out who Tonio actually insulted – him, Veronica or Luisa. It isn't as if he'd actually been involved with Veronica at any point, and it isn't as if he's actually cheating on her. They just liked to dance, to grind it up a bit, and maybe you could forgive a guy for thinking they were together. It's wasn't as if he'd ever let anyone else dance with her, after all. (It wasn't as if she ever wanted to, some smug cholo inside his head said.)

It's getting on for midnight when the gaggle of college kids pushes through the door, and he knows she's somewhere among them. Her presence hits him like an electrical charge, stronger than anything her taser could deliver, and he resists the urge to stomp over there and drag her behind him.

When he sees her, he wonders if that's exactly what she wanted him to do. Because even though she's hanging off Piz's arm, she sure as hell doesn't dress like that for him. He likes her in pink and white and pale green, but Weevil loves her dark side, and tonight, she's hitting every kink he has. She slips off her leather jacket to reveal a tiny silver top that leaves her shoulders and back bare, yet still manages to cling to every delicious contour in front. A black leather skirt sits low on her narrow hips, and black stockings full of strategically torn holes look seriously badass, while managing to showcase her milk white skin. The spike heel on her little ankle boots nearly kills him – she's giving off an S&M vibe that might actually be intentional, but is probably just Veronica sending up her black flag. Danger. Bad girl ahead. Might just explode.

He takes a deep breath, and tries not to panic. This is bad. Very bad. He is here with his girlfriend, and Veronica is here with her boyfriend, and he can tell she is hovering right on the edge of control. Hyper-charged and impatient, suffering from an excess of the energy that leaps under her skin. This is the Veronica he knew in high school: the ruthless, morally flexible bitch who will do anything – and hurt anyone – to get what she needs.

And he is already hard because – fuck – that's the Veronica he would do anything for. Die for. Kill for. Break a nice girl's heart for.

Luisa says “hey! That's Veronica!” and waves enthusiastically, signalling for them to come over. Piz looks unsure, but the other kids are already sitting down. Veronica slides into the chair straight across from him, and her green eyes are hot with intent.

“What a coincidence! I was just telling Weevil the other day that we should go on a double date,” she purrs, and Luisa laps it up, preening.

*

Luisa tells him to dance with Veronica. “I trust you, Papi,” she says with a wink.

Piz had tried, he'd give him that, and he wasn't half bad for a white boy but the tequila was slowing him down now, and Veronica is looking longingly at the dance floor. He's playing with fire, he knows it, but it's been two months since he danced with her and someone has hit every Daddy Yankee song in the jukebox.

He pulls her to her feet and they manage not to touch each other all the way through the first few songs. He's thanking his lucky stars when fate hits back hard: _Impacto_ has beats like you wouldn't believe and neither of them even pause – he drags her close, and they shake it down the way they always do.

Her ass is pressing into his crotch as they swivel low, and his hands are on her bare hipbones above that tiny little skirt, keeping her right there with him. Her hair is sweet under his nose, and he can smell the sweat rising on her skin – and when a drop makes its way down between her bare shoulder blades, he is tasting it before he can stop himself. She spins around, and the cool, calculating gaze is lost in a blaze of heat as she folds herself against him, lips against his skin as she mouths the lyrics. Oh, she's having an impact, he thinks as she shimmies her way around him, fingernails scraping over his chest and then his back before he loses all sanity and spins her around and up onto him, bent knees braced on his hips in what is practically a lap dance. He grips her ass tight as she begins to bend backwards, long hair slithering almost to the ground as she arches her neck, her chest and about five inches of taut stomach. His tongue is about to dip into the tempting hollow of her navel when he remembers they're in public, and they aren't here together. Appalled with himself, he begs. “Steady, mama. Please.”

He can hear the plea in his voice, but it is thick with desire, too. He wonders which makes her angry.

“Why? So you can go home and fuck your girlfriend instead of doing what you really want to do?” she asks bitterly, rolling her hips once more, as if to remind him of just how hard he is, before sliding down his body onto legs that are visibly shaking. It takes them like this, dancing, and he knows some fancy doctor would call it 'sublimation' or something like that, but when they shake it together, it feels like it's the only time they are real, their authentic selves, freed of all the bullshit that surrounds them.

And karma is obviously out to get him, because the track changes, sliding into the seductive stomp and shuffle of _Fuera de Control_. This song – it says every single thing he ever wanted to say to her, and some he already has. “Let yourself go.” “Nothing can stop you.” “You get me hot.”

And over and over again: “What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?”

He looks over to Luisa and her face is white with shock. She tries a nervous smile, but he can't bring himself to smile back because his heart is breaking for her as the fucking inevitability of it all just crashes down on him.

Don't trust me, he wants to yell. Don't trust me for a minute.

*

 _Fuera_ always fills the dancefloor, and he breathes a sigh of relief as the crowd thickens around them, hiding them from view. He assures himself he'll deal with this later, be a man about it, but right now, Veronica is in his arms, angry and frustrated. A real man would walk away, and go deal with the girl who actually has a right to be angry, he tells himself, but his hands are already stroking down Veronica's bare back, gentling her.

Que tu quieres, Weevil, he asks himself. Que tu quieres?

A breeze plays over his overheated skin, and he knows the back door is open. Eight steps to the bar, less than that through the kitchen, and few more to find a patch of darkness in the alleyway behind the club. He knows what they'll do there. He's always known, and all the obstacles they've thrown in its path over the past four years were just delaying tactics. Because this – he and V, together - would be the big one, the one that would burn them whole and maybe take the whole town with it.

He asks her anyway.

“Que tu quieres, baby?”

She looks up at him, and he sees the moment she realises he isn't simply mouthing the words to the song. Slumbrous green eyes sharpen as he demands a decision, and makes it clear it's hers to make. She stands on tiptoe and her breath ghosts over his ear as she makes her confession.

“You. It's always been you.”

He could argue – Echolls, his resentful heart remembers, fucking Echolls – but he is already tugging her through the crowd, up towards the end of the bar. He catches Tonio's attention and jerks his head in the direction of the back door, eyebrows raised in question. His friend smirks at Veronica and smiles knowingly before nodding his head; Weevil's fists clench but they are already halfway through the kitchen and he's too horny to argue. His hands are in her hair as they tumble out the back door and his mouth is on hers as they fall against the back fence, making it lurch alarmingly.

How have they not done this before, an inner voice wonders as his tongue sweeps into her mouth, memorising her. How could he have denied himself this for so long – sweet mint on her breath, vanilla hiding in a million tiny spots on her tongue. Acres of skin burning under his fingertips, and this girl, the girl he has always wanted, wrapping herself around him, gasping her excitement in between kisses, and writhing like a flame in his arms.

His eyes are closed, drinking her in, when the sting of her teeth drags him back to the moment. She is biting her way down towards the large crown inked at the base of his neck, the one her eyes have always lingered on. It's not the first time she has touched him there, but this time she can't pretend it's accidental: she traces every line and swirl with the tip of her tongue, alternating long swipes and short flicks in a tease that will drive him completely loco in about six seconds.

Five seconds later he has pushed her skirt up and pulled out the switchblade he carries for old times sake. He slices her underwear free of the garter belt that holds up the black stockings, then walks her backwards towards a blacked out window high on the the wall of the club. She yelps when he slides his hands under her ass and lifts her into the air, legs splayed either side of his elbows. “Grab the bars,” he orders, and for the first time in her life, Veronica Mars doesn't argue.

Once again, she is arched like a bow and completely at his mercy: this time, guilt has flown and there is nothing to rein them in. Slowly, deliberately, he uses his elbows to push her knees wide. He looks down to where she is laid bare for him, pink and glistening and fucking breathtaking, then looks up again, to stare into wild green eyes as she begins to babble, a litany of “please” and “fuck” and “oh God”. He knows he will remember this for the rest of his life. V, out of control. Begging for him. He feels a smile stretch across his face and drops to his knees.

He wants to dive in and feel her shake around his tongue, but he's not ready to abandon control just yet. He purses his lips and blows lightly, just to feel her shiver, and then flicks his tongue over her clit – once, twice, three times. She is keening now, long wails of sound, so he gives into temptation: a long, thorough lick from top to bottom, luxuriating in the tangy sweetness drenching his tastebuds. Another, this time swirling his tongue around her entrance, and now he wants to nibble his way around her panocha, all flowerlike and blooming, but she is cursing him, the greedy wench.

“Fuck you, Navarro. Fuck you,” she groans as her hips buck and she twitches from side to side, desperate for friction and pressure. He lifts his head to laugh at her for a moment, but the look of desperation on her face is his undoing … he growls, and drops back down onto her, mouth wide open as if to swallow her whole. His nose is bumping her clit with every thrust of her hips, and his tongue is fucking her, hard and fast and deep. She wails once, twice, and floods his mouth, legs clamping shut about his ears. He can't help but give a few more thrusts with his tongue as she begins to ride the aftershocks, finishing with a long, last suck through his teeth that leaves her shuddering.

He straightens up, and moves in against the wall, still cradling her in his arms. He wants to kiss her again, and whisper wicked things in her ear, and take her back to his shitty little apartment and fuck her over and over again. One thing at a time, he tells himself, and starts with the kiss.

Her lips break into a smile under his, and she opens her eyes.

“Eli. That was ….”

“Oh, it's Eli now, is it chica? Is that what it takes to get you to call me by my real name?”

He's joking, and they know it, because he loves the fact that V still calls him Weevil. He isn't PCH anymore, but he refuses to turn his back on the past that shaped him. And on her lips, it's a reminder that when everyone else thought he was a scary, good-for-nothing gangster, Veronica knew he had her back. She liked the scary badass, and trusted him, and went into bat for him when no one else would. And it was completely separate to the sexual charge that had always been there between them. Combine the two, though, and it was dangerous. Terrifying. He wonders if that's what has kept them apart for four years – that insane combination of like and lust and whatever came after.

She flutters her lashes at him and pulls him closer with the booted feet linked behind his back. “Weevil. Eli. You do that again, and I'll call you anything you want, vato. Because, honestly?” She loops her arms about his neck and brings her body flush up against him, whispering in his ear. “That. Was. Outstanding.”

He grins wide, and it must look stupid, but she makes him happy and he's sick of fucking hiding it.

“More where that came from, mama.” Her hand traces its way over the bulge in his jeans, and his voice shakes, because he's been hard for hours now and a man's got only so much control. “Been waiting a long time to do the things I want to do to you.”

“Yeah. We're idiots,” she says, shooting him a fierce look. He wants to remind her of all those boys with clean, clean sheets, and ask “why now?” but her fingers are working his zipper down and dipping inside his jeans, stroking. Taking the precome from his tip, and smoothing it down his shaft, and then he's in her fist and he's the one about to lose control.

“V! Pare un momento _,”_ he groans, because he's damned if he's gonna come all over her hand when he could be inside her. “Turn around!” he orders.

Her eyebrows shoot up but she turns anyway, and he presses up behind her, the tip of his cock already seeking the heat between her legs as he fishes in his jacket pocket for a condom. He rolls it on faster than he ever has, and then tugs her hips away from the wall, bending her forwards over his hands. “Give me room to move, mama,” he whispers, one booted foot stroking down her calf, and as she widens her stance, he splays his hand on her back to nudge her lower. It looks shockingly dark against her moon-silvered skin, and he stares for a moment, mesmerised. Next time, he'll give that fantasy the attention it deserves, he vows, but now? He pushes her down, hitches her up and slides home.

“Ay, Veronica,” he moans. “My V.” Four years. Four fucking years, he thinks, and begins to shake. He wants to be still a moment, but her hips have begun a slow, grinding circle that unseats him and then sends him even deeper, and he needs to move. He is chanting her name, he realises, the one that only he uses. “Vero. Vero. Vero,” he says, as he begins to stroke. “Vero,” he pants, as she bends herself even further forward and begs him to go faster, harder. “Vero ...” praying her orgasm is near because he is so close to complete abandon, and “Vero!” as she starts to clench around him. Then he unleashes completely, and the frantic hammering robs him of all conscious thought, his entire universe shrinking to sensation, and heat, and at last, at last, at last … satisfaction.

*

They come to, his body curving around hers in the alley, still joined. The adrenalin dump has left them both wobbly, and they turn to each other to kiss, desperate to preserve those moments of complete and utter clarity. He slips out of her body, knots the condom and flings it into the dumpster, never once taking his eyes from hers.

“Wow,” she says, and he knows she's not talking about the sex. Her eyes are shadowing, and he can see the guilt and nervousness starting to creep in. “We really did it.”

“Yeah.” And it has to be faced head on, or she will try to run, he knows. “I need you in my life, V. This isn't just about sex for me.”

“And you're assuming that's what it was for me? That I'd cheat on my boyfriend AND my friend just because I couldn't bear not to fuck you for one more moment? Jesus, Eli.”

“ Wasn't assuming nothing. Just waiting for you to say what it meant to you.” He knew where they'd gone wrong, all those other boyfriends of hers. Some more than others, but they'd all done it: here, this is love. This is what it means. This, Veronica, is what you should do. Fuck that shit.

“I ain't gonna tell you what to feel, or what we are. Been in love with you since the eleventh grade, V. That ain't gonna change just because you decide this is a fling, or you can't be a bitch to Piz or whatever. It is what it is.”

It would kill him, he knew, but he'd accept her decision, and he'd still have her back. Eventually, they'd get back to being friends, he told himself.

Her hands landed on her hips and her chin tilted up. “Looking for a get-out-of-jail-free card already Navarro? Sorry, but I'm fresh out,” she quipped, even though tears were welling in her eyes. He saw her chest swell as she took a deep breath, and kept on talking. “The idea of us together, of us testing this thing … I was frightened of it, right from that first day. I thought that if I ever gave in, I'd ... change. I'd be … just a girl, waiting for you. Praying you'd come home.”

Not Veronica Mars, he read between the lines. And it made sense, because he'd seen her do it with Kane, and Echolls, and now Piz. But with him?

“You were the only one I ever felt truly safe with. Safe enough to let go, you know? I couldn't bear the thought that if we were together, and I fucked it up, I'd lose that. I can't lose that,” she said fiercely, swiping at her eyes. “I can't!”

He wrapped his arms around her and tilted her chin up to meet his eyes.

“Can't believe Veronica Mars hasn't figured it out yet,” he teased gently. “We're gonna work, babe. Because we're us. I'm me and I love you – the real you, not Stepford-fucking-Veronica,” he told her. “Look at us – you're the love of my life and I've just fucked you in a back alley while you're still someone else's girl. Not very fucking romantic. But we're messy, you know?”

“Out of control,” she whispered. “Reckless.”

“Yeah, maybe. Sometimes. But, I know us, Veronica. We can do this. Sure, we spin out of control some, but – we bring each other back, chica. We keep each other safe.”

He didn't know how to make it any clearer to her, so he brought his forehead down to her own and pressed their lips together, simply making a connection. I love you, he thought. I need to be allowed to love you properly, mama.

And maybe he'd inherited some of that mysterious Mayan mojo his abuela used to talk about, because Veronica lifted her chin, and took his hand, and laced their fingers together.

“Let's go inside, and tell them now. It'll be brutal, but … they need to know. I want to sleep in your bed tonight, Eli.” And that, right there, was Veronica – bulldozing through, eyes on the truth and the consequences be damned. It was that certainty, that passion, that made every other woman in his life seem wishy-washy in comparison.

Weevil Navarro could have loved Lilly Kane. He could have loved Luisa Cortez. But Veronica Mars? He had loved her from the first time her smart mouth had shredded him to pieces, and from the first time he had felt the warmth of her body against his back as they tore up the PCH. He had loved her even as she stalked past him in the hallways at the start of senior year, and when she cried for him at graduation, and when he refused to let her visit him in prison. He had stared at her across the floor of a cheap carwash, known he was the cheapest thing there, and still loved her.

How could he not?

 

 _fin_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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